


The Holiest Water

by EnvelopedByOblivion



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Feels, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, I love this ship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love Confessions, M/M, Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 21:19:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19159189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnvelopedByOblivion/pseuds/EnvelopedByOblivion
Summary: What if instead of Crowley running to the burning bookshop, Aziraphale rushes to tell Crowley about Adam? He runs to Crowley’s flat but there’s no Crowley and no Bentley, just the sticky remains of a demon and some holy water on the floor and the flask open on the table...Prompt from snemon-says on Tumblr





	1. Chapter One

(This was inspired by a text-post from snemon-says on Tumblr. Please check them out here, they are pretty cool.)

 

The drive from the bookshop to Crowley’s apartment was longer than usual. The cab Aziraphale was taking was going much slower than Crowley's usual ungodly pace, which he appreciated. It would be pleasant enough, if he weren't in a rush.

Metatron had just denied his complaint (even after all that work with the summoning circle. People have no appreciation for hard work these days) and after the angels had done the same, it seemed it really was him and Crowley against the world. Well, not the world. Everything but the world. He, Crowley, the planet against the divine and the devious. 

Speak of the devil. He had put off informing Crowley of Adam long enough. It was terrible of him, really. What kind of friend would hold off such vital information? (Aziraphale didn’t want to let himself answer that. He was that kind of friend). 

Aside from Metatron's blatant disregard for his concern, nothing of remark occurred. He closed off the communication circle and set off for Crowley's flat, which he really should have done in the first place. Crowley was right, of course. He knew Heaven’s answer from the start, predicting perfectly the flippant indifference for the literal “end of the world.”

He really should've just listened to him, instead of wasting all this time. There wasn’t much left, after all. 

The cab pulled onto Crowley's street, and without further remark, Aziraphale walked briskly into the apartment building. He had only been gone for a short time, surely Crowley was lounging in whatever god forsaken position he managed he squirm himself into.

Knocking on the door to his flat, he waited for a reply that didn't come. He knocked again, polite as ever, when the door drifted open on its hinges.

Well, that was odd. But he was always dramatic, and what else could he expect after the shouting match in the middle of London? The door can't have been his main concern. He only had himself to blame for that.

He pushed the door open further, looking down the hallway.

"Crowley?" He called, growing in concern. No reply followed, so he shuffled further into the house, eyeing the blank walls and empty foyer. "Crowley? I've found out some good news. You probably want to hear it."

He never enjoyed the minimalist interior. It felt like a show home, or something that never contained life (aside from the suspiciously motionless plants cowering along the walls). Homes should never be so empty. 

He looked upon the office from where he was standing and froze. Sludge marked the floor in the doorway, and even from this distance he could sense it: holy water.

"Oh, dear god," he whispered, drifting closer.

Demon-based slime coated the otherwise clean floor next to a red bucket. The tartan-printed tin lay empty on Crowley's desk, lid tossed aside. 

Aziraphale processed the scene through a haze, eyes misting as he looked around for any sign that this wasn't true, that his eyes deceived him. 

"Crowley-" his voice broke as he backed into the far wall of the hallway, letting his feet fall from under him. "Crowley, please-"

Tears tracked down his cheeks, eyes still frozen on the space inside the office door. "T-This is my fault-" he stammered, "I gave you this, but dear lord, I never thought you'd use it like this."

His head banged on the wall behind him as it fell back, eyes closing around tears forming fast. He didn't bother stopping them, because dead lord, somebody has killed his best friend. 

He killed his best friend. 

"Crowley-"

His best friend had killed himself. Crowley was holding the gun, but Aziraphale had loaded it, placed it in his hand, put all his faith into him. Who is really to blame, then?

He pulled his knees close to his chest, letting his hand fall onto the cold floor. 

“Please,” he sobbed into the back of his hand. “Please, Go- Sa- Somebody!”

He couldn’t speak any more aloud. His lungs heaved on whatever words that wanted to pass his lips, coming out in choked sobs instead. In his mind, he begged to anyone who would listen. 

He would have gone to Alpha Centauri. Any day of the week, any century, he would run away with him, only to have him back. 

There’s no moving too fast now. He won’t move at all; he will stay against the wall until the end times take him too.

Lord, what wouldn’t he do to have Crowley here with him?


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley comes back to find Aziraphale.

Crowley, as opposed to what Aziraphale believed, was currently tumbling through the telephone system. He thought this was right clever – which was correct, but he would congratulate himself later. He was tumbling head over heels (literally) as he approached his exit. 

Hastur, following close behind him, snarled. This wasn't particularly irregular, seeing as demons regularly express emotions through snarling, but Hastur was even more menacing than usual. He flailed his arms in an attempt to grab Crowley, who dodged at the last moment. 

His exit was approaching fast.

"Crowley!" Hastur bellowed. His eyes were aflame when Crowley spared a glance behind him. He flashed a menacing smile in return, ducking into the answering machine. 

Crowley materialized after a moment, appearing from a mess of glitched-out pixels and code. He grinned when he looked (well, listened) to find Hastur trapped, frozen with the endless chorus of, "I know where the antichrist is-"

He froze. Wait. He heard someone. Well, someone other than the recording. Behind him, heavy sobs wracked an unknown being.

Crowley whipped around, pacing quietly up to the office door, which lay open. The person sobbed again, and Crowley's mind caught up to him. 

There's only one person who could reasonably be in his apartment. Aziraphale.

Suddenly unfrozen, Crowley pulled the door open further. Aziraphale laid against the far wall of the hallway, hand pressed against his eyes and knees pulled close to his chest. He didn't look up, lost to his own sorrow. 

Crowley paused before stepping over the sludge and out of the doorway. He fought to say something, but his vocal cords were frozen in his throat. He hated seeing Aziraphale like this. Someone who's smile was brighter than everything on earth, and everything off of it: a person with so much joy shouldn't be wracked with such sorrow. 

Those eyes that gaze with such longing anytime Crowley is around him. Six thousand years with only a few hours left, and Crowley would do anything to look at those eyes for eternity. 

"Angel?" He said, quietly. His voice sounded hoarse, only just strong enough to get Aziraphale's attention. 

He looked up, his soul laid bare beneath the pure sorrow in his eyes, tinted red around the edges. After focusing on the form before him, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

"Crowley?" His name came out barely above a whisper. "You're- you're not real." His voice broke along with his gaze, eyes falling to a space on the floor between them. Tears still trailed down his cheeks.

"I definitely feel real," Crowley said uncertainty, looking around the room for an answer as to what had happened to his dear Aziraphale. His eyes fell again onto the sludge. Oh. "Oh, Aziraphale, Angel-"

Crowley approached Aziraphale, falling onto his knees next to his Angel's shivering form. Aziraphale only looked up when Crowley touched his hand to his shoulder. He looked haunted, like he was looking a ghost in the face. Well, in some ways, Crowley supposed, he was. 

"You're dead," he said, his voice sounding so broken that Crowley's heart crumbled like paper in his chest. "I- I thought you were dead. You- the holy water-"

"No, Angel, that's not me," Crowley brought his hand to Aziraphale's jaw, flinching slightly as the tears steamed against his hand. His thumb seared as he wiped his thumb across his cheek. His tears were holy water, but comforting Aziraphale was more important to him. "I'm here, right? Angel, I'm with you now. I never should've left you."

"No, I left you," Aziraphale hiccupped as he said the words. "I- I thought I had killed you. I talked to Metatron, y- you were right all along; I should've listened to you, you're always right, Crowley."

Aziraphale slurred his words from talking too fast. His eyes grew wide as he talked, growing terrified as he considered the possibility again, thought of leaving Crowley again. 

"Hey, Aziraphale, you're okay," he said, his own eyes misting as he pulled Aziraphale into a tight hug, letting him burry his head in the crook of his shoulder. He rubbed small circles into Aziraphale's back, leaning his head against Aziraphale's own. "It's okay, I'm here now. I'm here for you, till the end."

"I thought I'd never see you again."

His heart seized in his chest. In that moment, he knew what Aziraphale meant when he said, "this place feels loved."

Love was never made for demons. But then again, Crowley never was like other demons. 

Aziraphale pulled back from the hug gently, nose just inches away from Crowley's own. Six thousand years, and Crowley finally found the courage to bridge that gap. Their lips meet, and Aziraphale stops thinking about losing Crowley. 

He has him, now more than ever.

And God dammit if he wasn't going to keep him. Neither Heaven nor Hell could keep them apart now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't plan on writing a second chapter, but ask and ye shall receive.


End file.
